Misadventures of Bowflogg and Falcontooth
by Spider Milkshake
Summary: Falcontooth has made his choice-he's staying with the goodbeast refugees from the Southlands and his buddy Bowflogg Beltwood the hare! But his brother Daraga is none too pleased... Oh noes... Contains many many OCs and terrible jokes.
1. Bathtime and Superstition

Misadventures of Bowflogg and Falcontooth

Chapter 1:

"Bathtime and Superstition"

* * *

The squirrel mother crossed her arms and blew through her whiskers as she examined the unscrupulous verminbeast from afar. It was not the first time she had been tasked with a briefing like this-it was Widecatt's edict that the stoat be brought up to speed with the goodbeast ways, manners, natures, tendencies, proper behaviors and practices as soon as possible. She looked askance at the plaited bark-fiber kilt, woven in with brown and ocher primitive patterns, and the curved-bladed knife stuck in the backsling over his shoulder. It was a vicious implement-murderous-looking!

And that was to say nothing of the bodily musk the beast gave off. Like forest dirt and ant nest mixed with general mammal odor. A good bath would fix that temporarily. That raggedy villainous get-up too. It would do well to burn it, she thought. Give him a proper smock and breeches like a civilized creature. Then, maybe, she could think about drumming in the manners.

With a sigh, Nayda decided that the time wouldn't get any righter, and they were losing precious daylight. Bustling up, the squirrel halted mere pawslengths away and stood rigid until the newcomer had noticed.

"Er, hullo, marm..." Falcontooth scratched his head and tried to take a step back, but the side of a lean-to shelter was in his way. Blundering over it he released a thin little chuckle. It died quickly upon seeing that the matronly rodent's face hadn't so much as twitched.

"Don't go 'hullo marm'-in' me, stoat! You'll call me Goody Nayda, but only after we've gotten you presentable!"

Falcontooth would have wilted under the severe words, but his confusion was far more powerful than his instincts of self-preservation, "Er, presentable, mar-er, Goody..?"

"Bath an' decent clothes! Lookit those rags! Come along then, to th' river! Ain't far as th' crow flies..."

"But... I ain't a crow, an'-"

"'Tis an expression, ye-ye... ye puddinhead. It means in a straight line."

"But, we can't go in a straight line t' th' river, there's a great patch of swamp, an' th' rocks on the other side make a-"

"Enough! I don't care if we get there walkin' sideways with larks nesting in our fur, you are followin' me t' th' river an' gettin' a bleedin' bath!"

With a drooping head the stoat tucked his tail and followed her. She strode through the various shelters the refugee creatures had set up on either side of the path, a fierce glare for each one that eyed her oddly. Falcontooth grimaced in apology to each of them. Nayda had something of a reputation here, and the fact that none of the otters, hedgehogs, mice or squirrels intervened in the stoat's forced march showed it.

"Hurry along!" she snapped back at him once they were clear of the open ground. Her gown was snagging on young alder shrubs, tripping her up and making her all the more irritable. The stoat, thought his brother had always called him clumsy, slow, unuseful, padded along unhindered. He'd been in these woods since the day he was born, a loop of twine about his mustelid waist for his mother to tug him along. Ah, those were the days. Before his brother became the main caretaker of the family things were much easier on him. His clan were easy-going then; they only loosely associated with each other and even then it was only for Solstice holidays or group hunts before the deepnesses of the winter struck.

"I said to hurry, not lollygag an' stare off into space!" The squirrel's voice cut through his thoughts, and he nearly tripped on a gnarled oak root as he peered up from pondering the path of some ants upon it, "Honestly... Vermin! Yore all either blunderdunces or bleedin' Warlords, ain't ye? Rather I 'ad a blunderdunce on my 'ands, but that don't excuse laggin'!"

"Sorry marm..."

"It's 'Goody Nayda'..!"

"Sorry Goody Nayda..."

Huffing, the squirrel mother lifted her gown edges with both paws, stepping over the raspberry brambles that had sprung up in their path. Falcontooth gritted his teeth. The berries grew very well to the sides of forest swampland, where the thickness of the canopy was lessened from drought-loving trees dying of waterot. His clan knew the signs learned through outdoor living-and there was another one in the form of electric blue cornflowers and daisy flourishing in greater numbers.

The stoat opened his mouth to speak, but instantly regretted it and shut his jaws tight together. The squirrellady would have none of it from a vermin creature. Daraga had warned him of this long ago, when his toepads were still pink and soft.

"The goodbeasts'll shame you," he had said. "They'll give you evil eyes an' make you think yore worthless spineless scum. If you so much as make one little mistake-it'll prove it to 'em. An' they'll break you for it. Don't misunderstand, there's no talkin' to 'em..."

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiigh!"

Dashing around the wall of overgrown brambles and wildflowers, Falcontooth met with a curious and common sight. Nayda had found the swamps. She was sunk up to her mid-thighs in water and peat mud, and her footpaws were locked in place with the sucking pressure under the bog. Her gown was absorbing water and hanging in a limp, gunk-splattered mess, and she was desperately trying to arch her tail's full red brush in such a way that it did not suffer the same fate.

Spying the stoat standing dumbfounded at the edge of the uncertain terrain, Nayda flung out her paws for something to hold onto and shrieked.

"Gaaaaaaaaah, nooooooo! Get me out! Get me out! I'm sinkin', ye twitterbrain! 'Elp, or get 'elp, or somethin'..!"

Falcontooth was stunned and brought his tail a bit more between his legs from the tirade, but he managed to coolly survey the fix the squirrel matron was in at the same time. A swift inspection of the mud on the swamp edges (where Nayda still thrashed and flailed) and the placement of the nearby trees gave him no cause for alarm.

"Hold, on, Nayda, marm, lemme get a good stick..." He took a step parallel to the muddy area, reaching for a brace of young dead crabapples.

"No..! No, don't leave me 'ere! I'll sink! I don't wanna die this way! No! No! 'Tis swamp! I'll be sunk afore a blunderdunce like ye could do anything!"

Falcontooth felt a rising confidence, knowing the panicked taskmaster to be wrong. He ignored her continuing cries as he picked his way into some brush, selecting the perfect lever. It was a slightly curved silvery bit of willow, the bark peeling off from decomposition but the underlying wood still strong. Ripping the rough staff free from the mud it was partially encased in, the stoat jogged back to the site of Nayda's error.

"Nayda, marm, reach out now," Falcontooth said as he poked the branch out to her. She grabbed at it with rabid intensity, still wriggling her legs made useless by the entrapping muck. "No, wait, wait, not like that." He retracted the stick just short of where Nayda could reach, "Calm it down, will ya? Th' more ya squirm th' harder it'll be t' get yore legs loose. Just take a good firm hold an' stay still!"

Were it any other time, Nayda would have growled the mustelid's ears off. But being in percieved mortal danger had a way of tempering her haughty nature. She grabbed the end of the willow branch with less fuss.

"Good! Now relax yore footpaws an' legs-"

"What! I'll sink!"

"No ya won't. Now loosen up those footies!" Falcontooth grinned. Nayda snarled at him and seemed apt to throw aside the end of the branch he'd offered her in favor of drowning.

"Why? I demand to know!"

"Cuz if ya loosen yore footpaws, the mud'll stop pullin' on 'em." The stoat thrust the stick out further, nearly pushing the squirrel off-balance, "Now, one ya done that, lay on yore back."

"Wh-No! Don't you vermin know what'll 'appen if a beast lays down in swamp?"

"Uhh..." Falcontooth paused to scratch his heel with the claws on his other paw's toes, "You'll get wet..?"

"Th' mud'll pull me down, ye fool!" Nayda's tailbrush was now in full frizz. The stoat cocked his head to the side and executed a puzzled wide blink.

"Th' mud's not pullin' nothin', Goody Nayda. That's all you. Fightin' t' get yore feet straight out makes it suck right back even deeper, til ya reach th' bottom."

"An' what genius told ye that little story?" she spat. The injured look on the stoat's face, coupled with the loosening of the willow branch in his paw, shut her right up.

"My brother, Daraga did. 'E knew th' woods an' wildlands like nobeast." The stoat once again urged Nayda to lay back with the stick, "An' he told me that if ya lay on yore back you'll float like on water, an' then ya can sort of scoot or swim back. But ya won't 'ave t' scoot. I'll pull ya out with this willow once you get yore footpaws free."

Sourness was painting the squirrel's face, but she did as she was bidden. She shivered and squeaked in protest as the stagnant damp crept up the back of her neck and soaked into her headfur.

"Yaaaak..."

"Can ya feel yore footpaws gettin' loose?"

"I don't know! I still don't think this is goin' ta-"

_Sllllll-__**pop**__! Sll-__**pop**__!_

"Told ya," the stoat said. Nayda's brow furrowed but she remained polite as could be in her next request:

"Alright, fine, good, dandy-now will ye please start pullin' me outta this stinkhole?"

Heaving back his head and dragging with his full weight, the stoat hauled her none-too-gently across the surface of the swamp border. The squirrel bobbed quite easily on the algae-slimed topwaters, but this did nothing to detract from her disgusted face. Grinning, Falcontooth finished pulling her in and put out a paw to hoist her up to standing.

With a blow through her whiskers Nayda refused, instead staggering to her footpaws and tamping on the ground beneath her to make certain it was firm. Turning to address the verminbeast with an upraised nose the squirrel could not help but hate the triumphant gleam in her charge's eye.

"Now, don't go lookin' at me like that," she began. "Don't compare yoreself to me. You're still horribly dirty an' dressed like a low-down tramp. You are still gettin' a bath."

"If I'm 'orribly dirty, then what're-Yoww!" The stoat hopped away, avoiding a second smack on the thigh from the squirrel mother's sopping tailbrush.

"Not a word, d'ye hear me?"

"Or what?"

"Or... I'll make ye a deal." The squirrel cast a furtive peek into the surrounding brush, "Th', hrrm, gentlebeast society would prefer all creatures in their presence to have bathed at least once every two days..."

The mustelid's face drew itself into peaks of horror. Multiple times a week?! They were mad, these goodbeasts. How was their fur still lustrous and healthy, not raw and stringy from the bad effects of excessive soap and scrubbing?!

"I can see by yore face ye wouldn't like that..." The squirrel made a sly face.

"Hellsteeth, I'd die..!"

"Then th' deal is, no mention of what 'appened 'ere, an' I'll act as if yore gettin' yore baths three times a week. Nobeast avoidin' ya for bein' a smelly or nasty vermint. Deal?"

Though he was stung and stunned by the thought that those in the refugee party would think him "smelly" simply because he did not wish to grate his skin and fur off regularly, the stoat clapped his paw with the squirrel's. She released his claws as quickly as she could and wiped her paw on her ooze-encrusted gown.

"Now, bath. Just one. Now."

"Yore a mite dirty yoreself...Care ta join me?~"

"Get stuffed, blinkin' stoat."

* * *

:D Yessssss... There's a few more like this to come.

Daraga may feature soon. You didn't think he'd abandon his baby brudder so quickly, now did you..? :)


	2. I Give 'im Three Weeks

Chapter 2:

"I Give 'Im Three Weeks"

* * *

_Hellsfire...How long is she gonna drone on? She sounds like a bloody bee tryin' t' make honey with a flower. Cor, I'm gonna fall asleep, I know it. Just make th' blinkin' toast an' be done with it!_

Bowflogg's secret thoughts were hidden by a sleepily smiling exterior. Seated at table under a broad (if tatty) canvas shade, the badger Widecatt was rambling on the virtues of having good food from the earth and honest working beasts in the land to bring it to them. Yes. How wonderful that we live in such a prosperous and generous wood, with oak and fruit trees and bounteous meadows and-_-_

**THONKK!**

One of the baby squirrels dropped off, right off of the soup bowl he was leaning his chin against. The badgermaid appeared shocked for a minute and mildly confused as to what made the noise. She looked left then right, right over the squirrelmite, for the cause.

"Ooh, messy beastie," Nayda scooped up her youngest son and dabbed a towel over his head, waking him to a sniffle of vegetable broth up the nostril. He jerked his head and sneezed onto the white linen tablecloth covering the stone that served as table. The more tightly would creatures of the band stiffened their lips and turned away with little gags at the result.

Bowflogg snickered, unbuckling his belt slightly so he could get at an itch to the groin. So much more attention was being paid to the new stoat fellow that he could get away with more of the rude gestures and taboo actions that only came natural to a young creature. Or an old creature, for that matter. The youngbeast never missed the lecherous stare that old Fingle the watervole always gave whenever a mousemaid or volemaiden passed by. Or the fact that he always offered to take chores off their paws. It was clear as ivy physic, and about as nasty.

He turned over to Falcontooth, the great drawer of suspicious eyes. The stoat was picking at the next-to-new tabard-style shirt that Nayda had graciously held him down and forced on him after his first bath. It was pale blue and smelled a bit like lye, a bit too much like lye. The stoat frowned as the fabric pinched his fur under his sweating armpits once again. Blasted thing, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. What was wrong with baring one's chest? Otters did it. All the time! Nobeast fussed at them. And the leggings! So tight they seemed designed for the torture of anybeast a sliver over the size of a dainty squirrel maiden. They pressed down so much on his fur he thought he might have marks for seasons to come. And it added to the stink in that he sweated there too. And the wet couldn't escape. How these creatures lived with such constraints boggled the mind!

However, the food was good. He was so busy stuffing his face the next moment that he hardly noticed the chafing anymore. Or indeed, had the attention spare for becoming concerned at the lack of meat on the table.

But Daraga noticed. And he was concerned.

A dark shade in the fronds of a willow tree some distance away and across the road, the stoat's brother hissed to himself at the sight of the creatures in their bonnets and gowns and flop hats and nice new sandals. He seethed at the sight of his little brother joining them, pawing uneasily at the ridiculous shirt he had never wanted to wear and shifting in annoyance as the tight black stockings caught a chunk of his fur one more time. Daraga breathed ragged breaths, unable to control his disbelief at the abandonment of his blood. He had to turn away to stop the powerful paw at his knife from clenching it until the blood was forced from the limb.

Crouching there in the broad trellis of the great tree, Daraga stared down at his knife, the signature multi-use weapon of his clan and the other verminbeast clans that made up the loosely formed Southern Mossflower tribe. The hilt was smooth as bone-_-_largely because it was bone, the bone of some long-dead bird, the hollow part of which had been filled with molten metal and swiftly cooled to make a well-weighted handle. The blade was blueish-gray steel, meticulously sharpened and slightly curved. There was but one edge, but the point was strong and well-honed. It was a very beautiful weapon even though it was so very simple. Daraga liked it's honesty. There was no doubt what it was made for.

"No brother of mine will be given up so easily..." The stoat warrior made himself the solemn promise, his breath forming fog upon the blade of his knife, "I give 'im three weeks... If he hasn't come back to his roots by then... I'll have t' show 'im how t' come back..."


	3. The Dark Side to Onions

Chapter 3:

"The Dark Side To Onions"

* * *

Toolum the mole was the only beast of the band that was even half-capable of fixing the broken spokes on the refugees' wagon. Of course, everybeast had assumed this upon glancing shortly at him and seeing that he was indeed a mole. _Of course_, he grumbled to himself. _All moles must be master craftsbeasts... Just like all squirrels can climb trees without getting stuck on a funny-shaped branch or all otters can hold their breaths for nine minutes, right from popping out of their mothers! Ohh, how simple life is!_

Grunting and covered in axle grease, the mole shimmied out from under the crippled vehicle and tossed a cracked wooden cog to the side. _Suuuure, Da, thanks. Teach me repair crafts, why don't ya. Let's prove everybeast right, shall we? And condemn me to a sorry life fixing everyone's worst problems while they all go play posy chains, hunh!_

Not far away, the stoat newcomer was being led about by his new comrade-in-arms. The young hare sniggered with devilish malice as he passed one of two oddly-shaped sacks to the inquisitive mustelid. Falcontooth peeled the open part of the bag apart slightly and sniffed it, then jerked back at the offensive odor.

"Err, Bowflogg, mate, what is this stuff..?"

"Old onion skins."

"... 'Ow old?"

"Much to old t' be doin' _this_ with..!" The hare rubbed his paws together with glee, watching their victim from afar, "Time for some jolly fun for once. C'mon, y've got my back. When I shouts, you throw an' make like a lizard in a blizzard!"

"Uhhh..."

It was much too late to try and stop the youngbeast. Creeping across the open lands of the dusty path, Bowflogg clutched the smelly bag in both paws. Falcontooth followed with a bit less enthusiasm, still not sure what was going to happen. The young hare flashed a grin and paused just a few paces from the working mole, holding the sack with the dangerous contents high above his head as a sapsucker would poking holes in tree bark.

"Good mornin', Toolam!"

"Oh, gurr, g' mornin' ee yung-_-_"

**Spplikk!**

Toolam leaped up with a howl of outrage, prompting the young hare to nearly flip over backwards in the beginnings of flight and the young stoat to drop his own stinkbomb on the ground at his feet. The mole flung stringy bits of greened onion skins from his face and headfur as he began flailing about, seeking his attacker with clenched digging claws and pryboard.

"You 'orrible shirkin' rotten...! Come yurr an' let oi show yer th' color o' yurr bludd! C'm yurr, Oi tell yurr! Stand in th' way o' moi boawrd an' that'll teach yurr t' do that again!"

Bowflogg's timing was perfect, but he had yet to consider the loose variable: Stoat. Falcontooth gave a start at the hideous cursing screech emitted by the mole and staggered this way and that, seeking a place to hide himself and the evidence that he was a part of the sinister dealings. The young hare's well-planned escape route connected with the young mustelid's poorly thought-out blunderings.

_Whump!_

The two brought each other down, exploding the second bag of nastiness in the process. As the stench cleared they both peered up to find Toolam the mole standing over them, paws laced together about the pryboard slung over his burly shoulder. He winked and grinned at the sorry duo.

"Welm, yung 'uns... Ee's gonner 'ave to 'ave a word with Missus Nayda an' ee gudd badgermaiden Woidcatt, hurr hurr..."

* * *

Oh noes! Not...not... WOIDCATT... XD


End file.
